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Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2
Chapter 16
As an investigator, Gil Grissom knew there were times he had to use unorthodox means to solve a crime. He was no longer involved in crime scenes, but he could use his experience in other situations.
His wife wanted a house in a certain neighborhood and looking for realtor signs in yards had not resulted in success. The long, sleek designs of mid-century modern architecture had grown in popularity, the neighborhood, with its mature trees and ample lots, was a prized gem in Vegas, and the houses were sold before an official listing appeared.
That's why he and Hank were taking daily walks along the quiet streets looking for any activity that might indicate an upcoming vacancy. In three months, there had been two deaths of elderly owners; he walked by both houses every day.
As he stopped in front of one of the houses, his thoughts went to Sara and he smiled. She was sleeping after a long shift and he had—so far—managed to keep his search methods a secret. Sighing, he realized their search for a house and their efforts at—his breath caught with his thought—Sara was not pregnant and the fertility clinic physician had recommended another, more complex, procedure.
Standing on the sidewalk, he grimaced at the memories. Guilt rose to the surface as he wiped his face—his own condition caused his anguish. He had waited too late—assuming for years than he—he was fine—it was his infertility issues that caused Sara to endure procedure after procedure without success.
He, the man who could dig into a maggot covered body without hesitation, could barely sit in the room while his wife was balanced in a lithotomy position for what seemed to be unending procedures.
Wiping a hand across his face, he regretted his initial suggestion to have a family; he'd been the one to press forward and then he'd learned his body failed on several vital levels. Low sperm count, poor motility—he had mentally kicked himself for months for not having a semen analysis earlier—before their excitement flourished, before months of—of disappointment. Now, it was Sara who had to undergo injections, ultrasounds, blood testing, and those dreaded—by him—examinations.
They had gone through post-coital testing which he found excruciatingly embarrassing; Sara had laughed all the way to the clinic. The results were—not good. The physician cautiously recommended an intrauterine procedure; one step at a time, she suggested, adding "Stay positive. Most couples have a baby."
So they had settled into a routine; not mechanical sex, but careful planning governed by appointments, injections, and 'collection'. They had developed a strange and unexpected intimacy and Sara was the one who, somehow, managed to find an optimistic outlook with all of it. Most of the time; her sadness occurred for a few days following negative results but never hopeless, always rebounding and ready for another cycle.
His hand wiped across his face again as he pushed his thoughts away; his lapse into self-pity was rare. Returning his eyes to study the empty house, he knew Sara liked this one; he could imagine her innate talent for pleasing design at work.
A house to turn into their own would be a diversion, a purpose as they planned for their future.
Hank pulled at his leash in an effort to get his master moving just as a woman stepped outside of the house. Surprised, Grissom nodded a greeting; the woman beckoned for him to approach.
Before he reached her driveway, she was speaking. "I've seen you around—always stopping to look at the Barfield house. You should buy it." She was well-dressed; a tennis player, Grissom thought.
He said, "I—we'd like to buy it, but it hasn't come on the market. Do you know the owners?"
"Have you checked county records? The Barfields only had one son—Donald—must be fifty years old now."
Grissom nodded. He had checked property records. "A family trust is listed as the owner."
The woman held out her hand, saying, "I'm Lisa Butler—the neighbor. Donald Barfield is in a private care facility—he was born with Down syndrome—never aged beyond childhood. I'm sure there is a guardian—probably a lawyer at his dad's old firm."
Grissom introduced himself. Eyebrows lifted in interest; clearly the woman knew—or had known—her neighbor. "I'm interested," he said. "Do you know who I could contact?"
Lisa Butler smiled, holding up one finger. "You look like you'd make a good neighbor—and I'm a sucker for a dog. I've just watered the plants—would you like to see it?"
"I wouldn't want to trespass."
She snorted a laugh. "I mow the grass, blow off the driveway, do a weekly walk-thru. Do you think anyone has been around since Mae Barfield died? The house will sit empty until some lawyer gets around to doing something. We might help him-her along, Mr. Grissom."
A few minutes later, Grissom stepped into a house that had not changed since the 1960s. A bright foyer, a perfect place for plants, opened into a large living room with a high ceiling; furniture was classic. Instinct told him the chairs, the tables, and the sofa, all with sleek wooden lines, had been originally purchased when the house was new.
"Mae kept it clean and nice—good stuff in here," Lisa said. "After she passed—she had a stroke and never came home—a neighbor and I cleaned the place and locked the doors. Her things are still in the closets, dishes in the cabinets."
Grissom, curious to see the rest of the house, motioned for Hank to stay, and asked, "Can I walk around?"
"Sure—I'll take your dog outside—what's his name?"
Seconds later, Hank had a new friend and Grissom was checking out bedrooms, closets, and bathrooms with the care he had once given crime scenes. The house was a museum to a long life; mementos, photographs, books, and furniture all appeared to be treasured items. A wall along the hallway was filled with the frozen face of a little boy growing into an adult with the expressions of a child.
He continued into the second bedroom, darkened by closed draperies that matched patterned bed coverings; rugs were faded but the wood floors showed little wear. The third bedroom stretched the width of the house, larger than the one in their condo, two closets, and a bathroom that brought back memories of his childhood. Backtracking he walked through the small kitchen, sandwiched between a dining area and a spacious den with a wall of windows. He pulled a cord and opened blinds that revealed a patio, overgrown with vines, partly covered by a roof, and a deep yard.
Hank was retrieving a stick. Grissom smiled and closed the blinds, even more certain that this was the place for Sara—for both of them. And a project that would fill their time.
In the days that followed, Grissom and Sara decided they had found the house they wanted to be their home. An elderly lawyer, poised and secure after years of experience, served as guardian for Donald Barfield, and decided it was time to sell the house.
Grissom was almost certain the attorney's decision came from an immediate fondness for Sara.
"It is a well-built house," he had said. "The Barfield's were good people—they loved the house. Bought it new—he and I were already working together—and we had some great parties there." The old lawyer, surprising Sara and Grissom, offered most of the furnishings. "Donald has no use for anything there."
As a result of that proposal, Sara and Grissom offered to buy the house as it was.
"You sure you don't mind dealing with all the stuff?" He asked on the day of closing. "Some of the furniture is good but it's old fashioned for a lot of people."
Sara already had plans for some of the furniture—a beautiful wooden audio cabinet, the dining table and chairs, several other pieces that fit with the design of the house.
With an agreement and purchase price that suited both parties, the house and its contents was theirs.
A few weeks later, Grissom and Jim Brass watched from the once overgrown patio as Sara walked around the back yard. Hank followed, sniffing around old flower beds, and doing what dog's do best.
Looking pleased with their progress, Grissom lifted his glass toward Sara, saying "She's worked wonders inside—I'm in charge of the yard." Walls had been painted, floors buffed to a soft glow, and covered with new rugs. Old photographs were gone, clothes had been donated, furniture cleaned and polished. The cabinets were filled with their own dishes; even a few photographs of them were sitting on shelves.
Brass followed Grissom's gaze. "What happens next with you two? Nice yard, couple of extra bedrooms," he chuckled. "If I thought about it, I'd say you two might be planning…" he folded his arms together and moved back and forth. "Maybe a little addition in the future?"
Knowing Sara's intense desire for privacy—as well as his own—Grissom was silent for a long moment before saying, "We have a lot to do with this place—then I'll be away for a while doing some research. And then—my mother plans to move here soon."
Just as Brass opened his mouth to voice another inquiring question, the door bell chimed, the front door was pushed open and the two men heard the excited voices of their friends.
Catherine Willows called, "We brought food!"
Grissom shrugged his shoulders and pulled a smirk before saying, "Party is here. Can I refill your glass?"
Hours later, Gil Grissom realized he had avoided the question Jim Brass had asked; by doing so, he'd probably revealed more than he should have. No going back now, he thought.
Then he looked over, found Sara talking to Greg and Nick. She met his eyes. There was a glass in her hand; she was laughing. She brushed her hand over her cheek, then grinned and blew him a kiss.
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